


Depth

by winterysomnium



Series: Zombie apocalypse AU [3]
Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: M/M, zombie apocalypse AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 19:15:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4637043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterysomnium/pseuds/winterysomnium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And Jason’s made of adrenaline, he’s made of gunpowder, made of goals, plans, of protect, of close the gate, go to the lab. Protect, close the gate, go to the lab. Close the gate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Depth

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you’ll enjoy, and thank you to varevare for reading the story. Another thank you goes to thestreetsatnight for the beautiful art for this AU.

“Yes? Hey B. What’s up?” Jason asks, dumps his weight on the couch, heavily, and the sun sends spots of washed colour running down his legs, dotting his knee, slipping past his toe, one warms the circle of his ear.

“Course I’m home. It’s Tuesday, I don’t teach on Tuesday remember? Hey, what’s that _noise_ behind you?” and something in it forces Jason to sit up, straighter, to lift his back from the comforting cradle of the cushion, as something resembling distress, something resembling anxious biting of nails, of blood coloring crescents darker, brown, dry, runs through Bruce’s voice.

“Jason, listen. Take the gun in the office, find Alfred, make sure no one acting _strange_ is _anywhere_ near the house and close the gate. Do you understand me? Close the gate.”

“The gun? You _own_ a gun? And _I_ should take it? What the hell is going on, B! Why should I –”

“I’ll explain later. Jason, go!”

“Okay, okay fine I’m going–” he answers, jumps out of the seat, startled, something cold and scared picking up his heartbeat, he holds the phone to his collar, to the bridge of his collarbone, calls: “Alfred!”, calls again, louder, paces through the house, finds the gun in the drawer, there’s no answer from Alfred’s voice.

“B, _what’s_ going on? Where are _you_?”

“I’m fine, Jason. Make sure Alfred’s unharmed. Close the gate and go to the laboratory. I’ll be there.”

“I could get the car, drive for you –”

“Prepare the med bay,” Bruce says and then the noise overlaps Bruce’s voice, sinks its tones, drowns anything other than people rushing in crowds, there’s a gasping cry out struggling to surface, someone’s rattling the door, shoes chatter, gossip of the direction of everyone’s feet.

“B?”

“Go!” Bruce yells and the line wavers, drops with a hum, lingers, scratches the air.

“B!” Jason calls, looks out at the yard, behind the kitchen window, and there’s Alfred, carrying flowers, cleaning out the beds above the roots, he’s been collecting a bouquet for the dinner table, he’s headed for the door and for a second, relief cuts half of the weight off, off of Jason’s feet.

“Alfred’s safe, B!” he rushes out, with his voice, with his feet, but the now the line shatters, down to left over lines, down to connections cut, and Jason’s movement feels heavy again, feels the heaviest it’s been.

“B?”

His fingers tremble, around his bones.

“Dad?”

(His voice trembles, too.)

“Dad!”

He opens the door, knocks his elbow against the handle, curses, Alfred lifts his head.

There’s a woman at the gate.

She’s running, running through the opened invite of the iron, her mouth carrying nothing but a mess of sounds, a gurgle, a shriek, haunted, hunting.

Jason disarms the safety.

(No one’s safe here, anymore.)

—

The outskirts aren’t far, the town cramped together, small enough to travel through within two hours on foot and they travel carefully, they travel silent until they reach the last houses, hours before noon, the sun has yet to warm the air and the statues of cars create a static, dim museum display, the road, the fields, the houses: they’re quiet, still, stirring under their shaky feet, and Tim stops at the middle, at the end of the divide of the road, looks over the damp ground, over the rain washed cars, over the honey coloured, whispering fields.

“I feel like I’m at a car show,” he says, glances at Jason standing next to him, his fingers a shield from the sun, a living, tranquil statue of himself, and Tim looks back, adds: “The only thing missing is a super chatty, super energetic sales person in a suit.” and Jason snorts, follows the noise with a small, soft sigh, keeps the smile, says: “Okay. Don’t have a _suit_ but.” and he leaves the sentence open, hanging with soundless, transparent meaning, walks backwards, away from Tim, runs a hand through his hair, as if his palm casts something away, something unknown to Tim and this Jason carries a smile Tim hasn’t seen before, carries confidence Tim knows of but couldn’t imagine like this and it’s when Jason presents the cars, with a gesture of invite, with a gesture of presentation, it’s when he asks: “Could I interest the young sir in one of our magnificent, state of the art vehicles? Best quality and lowest prices _guaranteed_.” that Tim sees all of the charm, all of the warmth Jason’s been hiding, sees how people could have fallen in love like this, easily, fast, fallen to Jason’s gestures, to his language, to the bow of his mouth.

And Tim feels the strange, nervous, jittery pull, the thrill of simply being, of wanting, and he laughs, softly, says: “I think you could, sir.” and Jason plays his role, claps his hands, answers: “Excellent! Let me show you some of the candidates then.” and Tim follows, dresses into a role of his own, into the slightly concerned, slightly picky customer as Jason introduces the first car, a “family and environment friendly Mazda Protegé, automatic, with four seats, 17 inch wheels and up to 400 l of space in the trunk. What do you say young sir?” and Tim critically assets the offer, leans to the windows, pretends the dirt and bottles and leaves aren’t there, aren’t there at all.

He pretends it’s completely clean.

(To a degree.)

“I don’t know, sir, what about all the rust on the sides of the doors? Not to mention the windshield. It’s gone.”

“Air conditioning,” Jason deadpans, lures another laugh from behind Tim’s teeth.

“Anything else you can recommend me?” Tim asks instead and Jason leads him higher, stands next to another metal door, next to another pretend, false offer.

“How about this splendid Nissan Rogue? Has very luxurious interior design as well as a fully functional, automatic sunroof. Perfect for warmer climates or summer days.”

“I actually prefer my car with _wheels_.”

“Damn, you don’t miss a thing, do you?” Jason answers but he’s smiling, and a sense of odd, soft pride wakes in the hollow of Tim’s chest, wakes and nestles and lightens the weight, the weary exhaustion because: his words curled on Jason’s mouth, they held his smile, they haven’t left yet and Tim initiates, walks to another car, asks: “What can you tell me about this one?” and Jason immediately responds, like the good, chatty, energetic salesman he’s supposed to be.  

“You mean what can I tell you about this comfortable, easy on the eyes Peugeot 206?”

“Yep. Though, on second thought, his owners seem a little attached to it, still. Not to mention there’s a tree smashed into the front of it. Kinda ruins the impression.”

“You’re a picky one, aren’t you?”

“Only want the best for me and my pal,” Tim answers, steps away from the windows, a mosaic of handprints, of dirtied splatters, someone’s fingers clawing at the glass, biting, soaking the air with eerie, cold sounds. Tim doesn’t feel good: about the joke, the scenery, the guilt.

“We should help them later,” he says and Jason nods, the atmosphere decays, sinks.

“And we should get a car that can handle rough terrain, too. The road is blocked all the way to the crossroad.”

“I know.”

“I’ve seen a Jeep a bit up on the hill. Seemed to be in good condition.”

“I’ve noticed it, too. It might be the best we can do right now.”

“Yeah, probably is. Hey, out of curiosity: what car would you pick? The Mazda, the Nissan or the Peugeot?” Jason asks, with a minute worth of delay and Tim thinks, as they slowly move their feet higher, as they shorten the distance between them and their goal.

“The jeep,” Tim says at last, with a grin.

Jason snorts.

“I’m not impressed with your question answering skills.”

“Okay, okay.” Tim laughs, as an apology, as appeasement, as something to say. “Out of the three, I’d probably go with the Nissan. I liked the look.”

“What, _dude_ , come on.”

“What would _you_ pick then?”

“A monster truck,” Jason says and smirks, Tim punches his arm.

“Who can’t answer questions now?” he raises an eyebrow and Jason stays mischievous, as if he’s planned this, as if he knew.

“Me,” he answers, a bit breathy, as they climb the hill, steeper, longer than it felt when they descended it, when they first aimed for its foot.

“I’d probably pick the Mazda. Or the BMV over there,” he says, pointing, after they conquered a third of the hill, and Tim tracks Jason’s movement, slightly winded, his muscles aching with the strain, with wishes, thoughts, flickering, stumbling into his head.

“You know what _I’d_ like right now?” he asks and Jason hums, looking for a bottle of water, zipping up his bag again in a minute, as he holds the bottle, nestled to his side.

“Enlighten me.”

“Lunch,” Tim confesses and Jason nods, drinks, checks the fields.  “I’d go for that too. Let’s get to the jeep first though. See if it runs at all.”

“Yeah. Sounds reasonable. It doesn’t look to be far,” Tim answers and it’s not, cramped in the middle, parked crooked and empty, snug between a Seat and a Ford, the keys forgotten in the engine, a suitcase, a bag of blankets and a backpack all that remains from the owners, from the people who had to abandon this, abandon all of it, from the people who had to leave all of it behind.  

It won’t feel right to go through strangers’ things, it won’t feel justified and it doesn’t but Tim has to, has to open the pockets, unzip the bigger, packed spaces, taking the suitcase out of the car, cautiously, and it’s then he notices the shimmer of movement, the slight change of calm and sun on the top of the hill, on the horizon of the curve.

“Jason, we got company,” he says, in a rush, crouches between the cars and Jason slips to the front of theirs, carefully leans, to look, to count, from behind the mirror and – “Shit.”

There’s too many to approach.

“Do we hide?”

“Yeah, we freaking better.“ he nods, won’t look away from Tim, now, won’t let the easy, dangerous haze of panic settle between fragments of his thoughts, won’t let it settle on his limbs. “Let’s go under the car. Quick,” he commands and Tim nods too, and in seconds he’s under the car, shields the view with the suitcase and now Jason’s there too, crawling upwards, his knife ready and so is Tim’s, the gap tight and their shoulders won’t fit, they adjust, their arms, elbows, forearms touch, their sides pressed together, clothes and shards of rocks and the bulk of the gun, Jason’s rough jeans, Tim’s faded hoodie and they haven’t been spotted yet, they’re lost to their vision now, they won’t get spotted, at all.

It takes minutes.

Tens of them. Tens before they hear more than each other as they breathe, more than the loud, distant buzz of insects, more than the trees and their swinging, gossiping branches, minutes before the sounds of them reach, before they see their limp feet, their withering shoes, tens of minutes before their unaware march disappears, before Tim stretches his arm, his fingers grasping a mirror, reaching out from under the side of the jeep, minutes before the road is empty again, besides the two of them, besides the people locked in their cars.

“We’re good,” Tim says, breathes and they’re still pressed to each other, with tense, trembling force, the asphalt dosing them in its spring scent, of metal, of the scattered leaves, of heat softening its shell, something of Jason, something of Tim, their fingers brush.

“We’re good,” Jason answers.

(They climb out.)

Tim thinks about their fingers.

(Jason thinks about his scar.)

—

“Lady, stop. Stop right there! I’m warning you!”

Jason is shouting, knows he is, but his voice doesn’t seem to work, doesn’t seem to affect any part of her, her speed or her balance or her consciousness and she runs, she rasps, wheezes, runs, runs runs runs to Alfred, until Jason’s standing where Alfred was, until he glances at Alfred and rushes him, yells: “Go inside the house, Alfie, _go_!”  and then it’s her, the grip he has on Bruce’s gun, Alfred on the steps, she looks his way and Jason shouts, again: “I’ll shoot! If you move I’ll shoot!” and she does, does so quick he’s breathless so he _has_ to, has to shoot, he punctures her thigh but she only screeches, runs faster, faster and he shoots her again, her heart, the bones, there’s blood on the orchids and her heels dig into the soil, he shoots a third time, she stops.

(She stops for good.)

And Jason’s made of adrenaline, he’s made of gunpowder, made of goals, plans, of protect, of close the gate, go to the lab.

Protect, close the gate, go to the lab.

Close the gate.

“Alfie, I’m closing the gate! You go into the house! I’ll be right behind you!” he calls as he’s running, breathes easier, deeper as he sees Alfred walk into the house, as he locks the gate, checks all of the yard, looks for people, not sick, waits for Bruce, walks to the laboratory with Alfred when he finds Jason in front of the gate, when he clasps his shoulder, when everything finally catches up, when everything resonates within Jason’s skin.

(Bruce doesn’t arrive for another hour.)  

—

“We used to have a car like this. Back in Gotham,” Tim says, walking through the rubble, his voice carried through the space of the room and there’s a vague scent of gasoline and oil stringing after them, the floor sculpting miniature lakes in dips, spills and overthrown plastic throats, a bottle crumples under Tim’s feet.

“Sorry,” he mutters, looks around, cautious.

(Jason’s palm won’t lose the feeling of his gun.)

The building’s empty but the streets are not, the city’s awake and they are being drained, slowly losing to tired bones, to the chase for supplies, find: food, bullets, razors, gas cans, nails, water.

(Find: survive.)    

Jason glances between the construction of the robbed out car and Tim, robbed down to a construction like everyone else, and he’s searching through piles of messes on a shelf, through another, through bottles of motor oil, bottles of anti-freeze, bottles of nothing at all.

“What a Honda Civic?” he asks and Tim nods, looks inside the skeleton of the Honda, looks for any leftover, forgotten things, for anything they could use.

“Yeah. Not a bad car.”

“We had a Honda too, the Jade model.”

“Expensive.”

“Dad was loaded. We had like, seven different cars, all from different companies,” Jason answers, with a shrug, snatches a box from the rubble, shakes it lightly between his fingers. “Found a matchbox. Full too. Catch,” he announces, throws it into Tim’s cupped palms. “I already got two. You were low on them, right?” he asks and Tim pockets the box, answers: “Yeah. Thanks.” and steps behind a counter, finds damp paper, finds a computer screen, painted with dust, with a map of cracks trailing out of its center and next to it, a key, _spare_ written on the attached label, dangling from its hollow, small circle on the top.

“Found a key, probably to the backdoor. Want to check it out?” he asks and Jason nods, says: “Sure.” and they do, they find the door, they find a body, they find stairs to the second floor, they find supplies to withstand the next three to four days, enough gasoline to fill the tank in the jeep and the sun is settling to set, lazily slipping down the horizon, as Tim walks down the stairs to lock the backdoor, Jason washing the days old dirt away, bare, behind a door with a towel and a gun and the sounds of water and touch feel more intimate than they should, feel like Tim’s listening in on something private and his thoughts travel, slip under the door, travel up Jason’s –

“Don’t go there, Tim,” he mutters, to himself, to no one, sorts their supplies, Jason asks: “What?” from the bathroom and Tim answers: “Nothing.” as Jason walks out, dressed and with his hair wet, the shirt still a bit damp on him, a bit of soap left on the back of his neck, and Tim convinces himself not to look, not to point it out, not to be obvious about this, from the start.

He throws Jason his blanket, the pillows they borrowed from the apartment already on the floor and Jason lights the small gas cooker they took from one of the shelves, Tim picks the cans and they sit on their blankets, they let the cans heat, one by one, and Tim decides that small talk, that little pieces of conversations, that they are okay. That they’re fine.

(Aren’t they?)

“So. Picking the car was kinda fun. Unexpectedly, really,” Tim says, starts the conversation, mixes the warmed up beans with a spoon, carefully cradling the can with a cloth held in his hands and Jason puts his own can on the fire, drums the spoon against his palm.

“It was,” he admits, looking into the fire, at the steam curling from the can.

“No wonder you know so much about cars. Considering your family had that many of them,” Tim adds, in between bites, and Jason shrugs, leaning into the warmth of the fire, opening the lid a touch more.

“I helped pick some of them out, so I didn’t want to do a lousy job, is all,” he answers and Tim glances at him, wonders if he’s asking too much, if he’s about to jab into something that’s going to hurt, if Jason isn’t hurting, already.

(But he asks, anyway.)

“Your Dad, is he fine?” he asks and Jason takes his beans, weakens the fire. Waits, with a sigh on his mouth.

“I wouldn’t know. Last time I’ve seen him he was.”

“Was that a long time ago?”

“Kinda,” he says.

“Why did you leave?” Tim asks, quietly, and it’s then that Jason snaps, that his discomfort shows, on his mouth, his brows, the melody of his words.

“Look Tim, let’s not get too buddy buddy with each other, okay? For all we know, the trip goes good, we get to California in under a week, and we might not see each other ever again. So let’s just, not get attached. Okay?” he asks and “no” is what Tim wishes he could say.

“Okay, sure. Deal.” is what he does, what he _has_ to say.

(Doesn’t he?)

“We can do that.”

“Fine, cool.” is Jason’s answer, muffled as he bites around the spoon.

They eat, they turn off the fire, they go to sleep.

Tim faces the window, feels the weight of Jason’s presence, about a meter away, says: “Goodnight.” and Jason does too, after a second of unsettling calm.

They sleep safe, tonight.

(But both feel their thoughts turn heavy.)

((As heavy as thoughts can get.))  


End file.
